


John Watson Is (NOT) A Shite Boyfriend

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Homoromantic John, John-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a shite boyfriend. He always has been. It's really not his fault, he's just never dated someone he actually cared about before. Now that he's with Sherlock he has to deal with his own self doubt. Trips down memory lane can hurt but we sometimes come away a bit smarter for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



Never in a million years would anyone think John Watson would be a shite boyfriend to Sherlock Holmes. Well, no one but John. And, hey, for the record, it wasn't a thought born out of some huge inferiority complex or anything quite so inane, no, it was based in cold, hard fact. John Watson, was an utterly shite boyfriend. 

Christ, need an actual example? Jeanette. Poor Jeanette. She'd been a good girlfriend, she really had. She'd put up with John going gooey over Sherlock in her presence multiple times and even the one time John actually GOT OUT OF BED to answer the man's call. He preferred to text after all so John had thought it must be important. And then he forgot she wasn't the one with the dog.

That was the crux of it, John realised, that he thought of her now as 'the one he thought had the dog'. He was no better than Sherlock that way, always coming back around to thinking of exes, and sometimes 'currents' as the one with fill-in-the-blank. The one with the spots. The one with the angry brother. The one with the dog. The one without the dog. 

Sherlock had once joked about something along the lines of John's emails to his girlfriends being like bad poetry. They were. He sampled actual poetry, whether it was bad or good depends on your tastes. Copy and pasted it right along until they opened their legs.

And hell, he didn't want to be that kind of person, didn't want to be that kind of man, so he tried to make up for it where he could. As he was nearly starving on locum work and what money the cases actually brought in god knows it wasn't in the pocket book. 

John made a face thinking about it and made a similar face when he caught said face in the reflection from a passing car. 

He made up for it in the bedroom. There, he'd said it. Well, thought it. Wasn't that the first step? Admitting you had a problem?

He got through the front door and meandered up the steps, because walking would get him there much too fast, hands in pockets and head bowed. Sherlock was upstairs, after all, and John wasn't ready to face his biggest failure just yet. A few more seconds before he had to see the smile on Sherlock's face and know that he'd already begun to utterly bugger this up.

"John?" Sherlock said for the third time.

"Hmm?" John asked, looking up and breaking from his thoughts.

"You've been just standing in the stairwell for ten minutes. Are you coming in?" Sherlock said, concern etched in his brow.

"Yeah, I'll, um, maybe I should go get us some takeaway? How does that sound?" he tried weakly.

"Fine. Bring back some of the curry I like," Sherlock said before turning around and closing the door to the flat behind him.

Yeah, he'd get the curry Sherlock liked and Sherlock would know he loved him. That's what would do it. Curry. Bloody hell, he was going to fuck this up.

_____

The first time a girl had called him a horrendous boyfriend it had been at the age of sixteen and a half, partway through the summer break, and he'd got a good slap out of it, too. He couldn't remember her name now, surprise, surprise, but that didn't really matter. She was his first girlfriend and he really had intended on being good to her. The problem with that came in the form of a boy named Colin.

Colin was John's first love. Twenty years it took to admit that to himself, but still, there it was. Colin was tall and ginger and loud and alive in a way John had yet to really understand. He seemed neon colored to John, lit up like a pub sign on the side of the road. He was funny, yeah, that was part of it, and John thought the way he felt when he was around Colin would never be enough. Colin would make him laugh so hard his chest and sides would hurt from it and his breath would turn into a sort of wheeze.

Colin introduced him to Margaux. No, that wasn't it. Something with an 'M'. Whatever. Colin was her cousin and she had come down for the summer to stay with his parents while her's were in France. She was pretty and blonde and liked John right off the bat.

A month and a half into their pathetic love affair found John with his hand up her skirt while he watched Colin playing with the football out the window. It was the first time he'd ever had his hands in that close a proximity to anyone else's genitals so you would have thought he'd been paying attention. He really wasn't.

It wasn't as if he was actively trying not to really care, it was more of a matter of being thoroughly distracted by a fit, sweaty, grinning sixteen year old boy on the other side of the glass. She'd thought he was aroused by her, and he was, a bit, so she started kissing his neck and palming him through his jeans. It felt bloody fantastic and John figured her should show her the same by touching her back. Simple enough plan. 

She was close to coming just from him rubbing against her and probably would have had the mood continued. It did not. Colin, oblivious as to how utterly taken John was with him and the fact that he was being watched, removed his sweat soaked shirt and ran his hands over his chest in a purely innocent manner. John came. John came with Colin's name on his lips and someone else's hand in his pants. 

She slapped him hard and left the room crying and that was when John realised he really needed to up his game. First things first, no more boys. Boys were trouble, he knew it. All he had to do was not be so bloody interested in boys.

_____

It worked. Unfortunately it only worked for about half a day after he'd got off with a boy in some broom closet or back room. He'd come with his tongue in some random boy's mouth and be completely cured of the urge to touch a boy for fourteen or so hours. He'd write in his journal that all his prayers had been answered and he was one hundred percent heterosexual and fall asleep that night with the knowledge that life from then on would be easy.

The next day he would go back to his 'sinful' ways and curse his own existence.  
_____

It wasn't that he didn't like being with girls, he liked it a great deal, it was that it ended there. He liked it. He liked shepherd's pie a great deal as well. He liked shepherd's pie but he'd live off Nando's. He figured that was the perfect analogy, and was secretly quite proud of himself for coming up with it, because shepherd's pie had veggies and meat and everyone wanted him to like it but, gods, would he kill for some Nando's. It was horrible for him and he'd gorge on it and then hate himself afterwards and then go back again and again. If he could just find out a way to be madly in love with shepherd's pie he'd be fine.

_____

His next Nando's came in the form of a short feminine boy named David. David was from America and was John's partner in chemistry. John knew from day one that he was sunk. David sidled up to him and smiled and said hello and John nearly choked. He smelled good. He smelled bloody wondrous. How an eighteen year old boy could smell so absolutely divine was beyond John's understanding.

The next problem for John arose when David wanted to come over to his flat while his roommate was gone. They got along in class well enough, but John worried that without the distraction of class work his little infatuation would be obvious. He tried to beg off, and did quite well, until David suggested they get dinner first and mentioned that he'd never been to a Nando's. It seemed that the universe had it in for John Watson.

_____

David was really a sweetheart. He was generous and kind and so very unAmerican, if you were to believe the press, and it almost killed John to have to turn him down.

"What do you mean you don't like me like that?" David asked one night after they'd watched some Bond films and eaten takeaway straight from the box.

"I only date women," John replied, hoping the clarification would help the truth sink in.

"But last week, last week you kissed me," David said, utterly dumbfounded.

"Yeah, well I just had to, erm, get it out of my system is all," John replied nervously, self hate burning in his chest.

"Get it out of your system?" David screamed, "I thought you cared about me!"

John took a step back and bit into his lip before replying, "I do. I do care about you."

"Then why would you do that?" David demanded as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I don't know," John admitted.

David laughed humorlessly as he left. That Monday John got a new chemistry partner. Some part of him was never the same.

_____

The next disaster of note was Major James Sholto. He never actually touched the Major, no matter how much he would have liked too.

He realised he felt something for the Major after they were nearly killed by an IED. He tried to convince himself that it was just the fact that they'd been through an immensely traumatic experience together but it didn't work. He had no problem looking any of the other men he'd been with in the eye. It was only the Major that made him feel weak.

And that's what he was being, let's be honest, weak and pathetic, the same boy that had said his best friend's name while receiving his first handjob. 

The times that they seemed to be alone together grew exponentially after the incident until John found himself standing outside the Major's tent in the middle of the night after an especially rough firefight. He didn't think he'd be seen, the Major wasn't even looking in his direction, so when he got tired and sat crosslegged outside the tent he felt thoroughly relaxed. The rumbling voice that came soon after shook him to his core.

"Are you going to sit out there all night, Watson?" Sholto asked without looking up from his book.

John shot to his feet and stammered something that came out as gibberish before the Major signaled for him to enter. 

John went and stood next to the Major's cot for a moment before the man sighed and patted the place next to himself. John sat quickly and set his hands, which he really had no idea what to do with, in his lap.

"I had a dog once, you know," Sholto said softly, "was a police dog before I owned her. Good girl. You know what her problem was, Watson?"

John cleared his throat and croaked out a quiet 'no, sir'.

"She was so perfectly trained that she couldn't relax. She was always on guard. Sometimes I just wanted something to warm the bed next to me," the Major explained.

John's eyebrows knit as he picked apart the comment carefully and the Major sighed again and set his book down.

"You ever relax, son?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," John said, confused.

"But you can't now?" Sholto added.

"N-no, sir," John stammered, looking down at the ground.

"Because of how you feel about me," Sholto said.

"Yes, sir," John whispered.

"Well, then, you know what you have to do?" Sholto asked, placing his hand next to John's where it was now clutching painfully at the cot.

John swallowed nervously and shook his head.

"Take that part of you that feels those things and tuck it away. It won't do you any good, so just tuck it away," the Major said with a sad smile.

John nodded and chewed on his lip as the Major patted him on the back.

_____ 

Now, a lot of you are probably thinking what the Major did was horrible. John disagreed. He did exactly what the man suggested and they soon became close friends and worked quite well together. Without pushing that part of himself aside he wouldn't have had anything meaningful with the man, or so he told himself, so it was all worth it.

Unfortunately John didn't realise that what the major suggested wasn't supposed to roll over into his civilian life. Sholto hadn't meant for him to take that part of himself and destroy it, and it would have made him pissed as hell to hear that was how John took it, he meant to set it aside until it would do him more good than harm. John never got that. That's how he ended up in a loveless marriage with a sociopath.

Now marriage, well, Mary, was doing awful things to him, but what was really doing him in was the almost daily act of tamping down his love for Sherlock and tucking it away. It was the denial of what they had, the bond that couldn't even be broken by (supposed) death, that was killing John. He'd later think that it was the denial that kept him from seeing Mary for who she really was and the reason Sherlock was so nearly, well, was so ACTUALLY, killed. 

That was John's wake up call.


	2. Is That A Proposition, Mr Holmes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, smut, and more...

The second Mary was gone, whisked away to some god awful place by Mycroft's people, John knew he was going to have to try to repair his and Sherlock's relationship. He didn't realise how easy it would be. They slipped right back into their old ways, slotting together as they did that first night, souls seeming to fit perfectly. It still took him over three months to tell Sherlock how he felt.

Over three months and walking in on Sherlock dancing alone to the song he'd written for his and Mary's wedding. 

He moved across the floor gracefully, posed in the follow position with his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. John felt emotion bubbling up and trying to choke him as he remembered how hard it was for him to not kiss Sherlock when the man had taught him how to dance all those moths prior. How perfectly Sherlock's hand had fit in his. How much he wanted to never stop.

He rested against the doorframe as he slipped his shoes off and loosened his tie, swallowing hard and trying not to make a sound, not to break this perfect moment. It was, however, impossible to keep Sherlock from hearing him when he unzipped his jacket and hung it on the hat rack.

He swore he could see Sherlock's ear prick as his eyes opened and he looked suddenly like a very guilty child.

"John," Sherlock said, walking to turn off the music, "you aren't due home for another two hours." 

John stepped in front of him, halting his movements and met his eyes. Sherlock swallowed roughly and averted his. It hurt to know that he'd done this to Sherlock, that his actions had caused Sherlock to want to hide this part of himself from John. 

"I wasn't, that is, I didn't think-" Sherlock began, voice pinched and nose scrunched up.

"It's my song," John said, "aren't I allowed to dance to it?"

Sherlock looked up, surprised, and swallowed again before nodding, this time not able to look away from John's eyes.

"I'll need a partner," John said with a small smile, "and you know I'd be lost without my detective."

The blush that had been growing high on Sherlock's cheekbones moved to tickle the tips of his ears as John took position and waited, hand held high. 

"Well," Sherlock said, trying for disinterest, "if you insist."

John's smile grew as Sherlock took his hand and fell perfectly into step with him. They circled slowly around the floor as the song played. When it ended it picked right back up again and John wondered how long Sherlock had danced that afternoon with the song on loop.

The air between them seemed to be thick with what they really should have said years ago and John knew he needed to say some of it if he wanted this to continue, which he did, very much so.

"They never meant anything to me," he stated, "and I know that probably makes me a horrible person, but that's the truth. They never meant a damn, but you did. You do."

Sherlock nodded slowly, head moving as if stuck in molasses.

"It was easier with them. I'm no good at this, this kind of emotion. Never have been," he added.

"And Mary?" Sherlock asked, voice low.

"A poor imitation," John said honestly, "but then again, that's what she did, wasn't it? Tried to be you. Moriarty saw what you never did and sent me exactly what he knew I wanted. She just wasn't as good an actress as she thought. No one gets past the great Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked away, jaw clenching, "she did. For quite a while."

"She's gone," John replied.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, "and where do we go from here?"

"Wherever we want," John whispered.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked back at John, "you do realise I'm a man?"

John chuckled and brought one hand up to Sherlock's jaw, brushing his thumb across the hollow of his cheek, "bit hard to miss, that."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Sherlock asked, honestly needing to know.

"Not in the least," John replied, hand slipping to Sherlock's neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

Sherlock shuddered as John ran his tongue across his plump bottom lip and grazed it with his teeth, his body going taught until John slipped his fingers up into his hair. Sherlock always had a way of melting, of going absolutely boneless in a chair or over the arm of the sofa, so it shouldn't have been a surprise to John when he did so in his arms. Shouldn't have been, but was. John pulled away and let Sherlock rest his face against his neck as he drew him closer and continued to dance, slower then.

"It's been a very long time since I've been in love, Sherlock Holmes, so you'll have to forgive me for taking an utterly ridiculous amount of time to act on it," he said as he stroked through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock whimpered and John held him tighter.

_____

Two weeks later, relationship hashed out and sex life vibrant, John still had no clue what he was doing. Every time he looked at Sherlock he wanted to rip his own hair out with the intensity of his love for him. It was screaming inside him and knocking against the insides of his rib cage and he had no clue if he'd ever be able to explain how intense it was, how bone deep.

He looked up to find that he'd unknowingly simply walked around the block and entered 221 again. He stood stunned for a moment before resigning himself to walking into the flat. Sherlock let his violin drop to his side and looked John up and down for a moment before setting the instrument in its case and walking closer.

"What's wrong?" he asked, not wanting, for some reason, to touch John.

"I...I just...I'm a shite boyfriend," he said, willing his voice to stay calm.

"And what gave you that impression?" Sherlock asked, taking a step forward and reaching a hand out to squeeze John's bicep.

John laughed humorlessly and shrugged, hating himself for the way his eyes burned with unshed tears, "always have been, I suppose."

"Well, they never meant anything to you. You said it yourself," Sherlock said, bringing him close and trying to soothe him the way he'd taught.

"Suppose that's what scares me," John admitted weakly, really wanting a drink just then.

"Mmm, I've had a similar response," Sherlock said.

"Really?" John asked drawing back to look Sherlock in the eyes.

It made the genius shift from foot to foot self consciously and shrug himself.

"We're a pair of fools, you know that?" John said, laughter bubbling up in his chest.

Sherlock tried to look scandalised and John giggled and pulled him in for a gentle kiss. Sherlock deepened the kiss, lips parting and tongue searching with growing desperation. When they finally broke he drew in a deep breath and led John to their bed, not saying a word as he slowly undressed the smaller man and then himself.

He pushed John back onto the bed and moved him so he was resting high with his head on the pillows. John watched, entranced as Sherlock retrieved the lubricant from the bedside table and began opening himself slowly. He never looked away from John as he pushed one, two, and then three long digits into himself in preparation for what he really needed, eyes only fluttering closed for a few seconds as he moved to straddle John's waist.

John slicked his cock up and held it still as Sherlock lowered himself slowly until the round head breached him. John rubbed up and down Sherlock's sides and gentled him as he shook and slipped down more, mouth open and breath coming out in little puffs. He rubbed his thumbs in circles when he was fully seated and gripped Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock rolled said hips experimentally and moaned deep in chest, the sound coming out a low rumble that John swore he could feel in his cock. He let his head fall back as John brushed his hands up the long expanse of skin to his broad chest, fingers rubbing over peaked nipples gently.

John remembered to breath as Sherlock lifted himself on strong thighs and sank down again with a grunt. The brunette did it again and John felt it deep inside, the need to protect and claim at the same time.

"Does that feel good?" John asked, hips pushing up to meet Sherlock's movements.

Sherlock nodded and grasped John's left hand, lacing their fingers together and starting to move faster.

"You're so gorgeous like this," John murmured, "so perfect."

Sherlock whimpered and bent down to breathe roughly against John's neck and let him take the lead. John pushed up into him faster, pumping his cock deep and rubbing Sherlock's back with his right hand.

"Need you," Sherlock wheezed.

"That's okay, love," John replied, hips rocking, "I've got you."

Sherlock pressed a wet kiss to John's neck and the soldier rolled them over in one fluid motion and started to fuck him in earnest. Sherlock moaned and wrapped his legs around John's waist. 

"Let go," John whispered, hips bucking wildly, "let go."

Sherlock choked on a moan and his back arched up so their chests rubbed together slickly as his cock pulsed out thick ribbons of come between them. John pulled almost all the way out so Sherlock's body clenched around the head of his prick and then buried himself as deep as he could and spilled into him.

When John finally pulled out Sherlock whimpered at the loss and John kissed him gently before standing on shaking legs to retrieve a wet flannel and a glass of water. When he returned Sherlock took the water eagerly and drank it down as John ran the cloth across his abdomen and between his legs to clean him. He took the glass back and finished it off before wiping himself down, tossing the flannel into the dirty laundry and setting the empty glass aside.

"Stay with me," Sherlock said as his eyes closed.

"As long as you'll let me," John replied.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, "I was thinking..."

"About what?" John asked as he lay beside him and pulled him into his arms.

"That you'll make a fantastic husband," Sherlock whispered, "this time around."

John chuckled and kissed his brow, "is that a proposition, Mr Holmes?"

"More of a proposal, I believe," Sherlock replied, breath warm against his companion's neck.

"Proposal accepted," John said, chest clenching, "now go to sleep."

Sherlock nodded and proceeded to do just that.


End file.
